


a light year from reality

by abovetheserpentine



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Accidental Relationship, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-06 05:49:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13404768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovetheserpentine/pseuds/abovetheserpentine
Summary: “It’s Zayn.” Niall explains, quiet and a little fed up, rolling his eyes as he scratches at his bare chest. Louis raises his eyebrows, and Niall’s just tired.A fic where Zayn didn't leave in March 2015.





	a light year from reality

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flares](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flares/gifts).



> This turned out angstier than I anticipated (wow, what a surprise lol), but ah well. I also got a little lazy and that's why it's short, so I apologise!
> 
> Title taken from the Beck song _Dreams._

Niall doesn’t know how it happens. The fact that his band mates are fucking idiots is probably the reason, but it all gets too blurry and undefined for him to do much about it.

Zayn enters his hotel room one night after a show, dark hair damp with his recent shower and his attire soft and loose, his basketball shorts almost comical.

“Hey,” Niall greets him, nodding his head. He’s on his bed, legs splayed and back twinging at the hunched position he’s put himself in. Some foreign soap is playing on the telly, and he’s been trying to figure out how everyone’s related to each other for the past ten minutes.

Zayn merely grunts in reply, dropping himself down onto the lounge chair near the desk, swinging his skinny legs over the arm of it to watch the television with him. It’s quiet, the rapid-fire Spanish at low volume. They might be in San Diego, but Niall’s managed to find the Spanish channels. Niall bites his lip, frowning as he wonders whether the woman on screen is fucking her ex-husband or her brother, given the amount of drama that’s surrounding her scenes.

He thinks it’s been another ten minutes, but maybe it’s been more like half an hour because there’s a loud knocking on his door that breaks him out of his thoughts, and he glances over to see Zayn’s head leaning on the back of his chair, body folded up and his eyes gently closed.

Niall grumbles to himself and runs a hand through his blond hair as he gets up, nearly tripping over his joggers – likely Harry’s, given how long they are – before he reaches the door, unlocking it to poke his head out, making sure to keep it mostly closed for Zayn’s sake. Niall’s not oblivious – he’s seen the dark circles under his friend’s eyes when the make-up comes off.

“What?” He asks, squinting past his own fatigue to see Louis at the door, his hair curling at the base of his neck. He needs a cut, but Niall’s too tired and too old to bother telling him these kinds of things anymore. They’re all separate, now, instead of one entity. It’s healthier, but sometimes his heart squeezes too hard, overcome at the thought of stopping what they have. It’s happening, Niall knows. They all agreed. But he’s dreading it, all the same.

“You got a girl in there, Horan?” Louis prods, like it’s 2013 and Niall’s likely to bring a stranger back to his room after a show, high on adrenalin and hoping for some sense of normality amongst everything.

“It’s Zayn.” Niall explains, quiet and a little fed up, rolling his eyes as he scratches at his bare chest. Louis raises his eyebrows, and Niall’s just tired.

“Well, then,” he replies, a little jerkily. He pastes on a bright smile, the kind of thing that tells Niall he needs a little interrogating, that Niall should ask him what’s wrong.

But...

“See you tomorrow, Tommo,” Niall sighs, giving a weary smile before he closes the door. He turns around, body sluggish all of a sudden. Zayn’s lifted his head, eyes still closed and the tiniest of frowns on his face.

“C’mon, Zaynie.” Niall murmurs once he’s close enough, pulling Zayn up gently and trying not to notice how his fingers curl all the way around his biceps. They stumble to the bed, and Niall turns off the telly and the bedside, letting himself sink underneath the covers. It’s July, but the air conditioning is on full blast. It’s safer, Niall feels like, for him to have that barrier between his skin and the air of this hotel room, one of many. It’s things like this that feel stale, but soon forgotten in the drowsy warmth of Zayn settling against him, head tucked into one of the pillows but his palm resting comfortably on the side of Niall’s neck. This is easy, even if everything else really isn’t.

Niall doesn’t think much of it until a week later, when they’re rolling into Canada and it’s a lot cooler than San Diego had been. He sees Zayn pull on two jumpers over his long-sleeved top out of the corner of his eye, but Harry barks out a laugh at something Liam’s muttered under his breath and he’s jolted out of it, feeling the rumble of the bus underneath him as he gazes at his long-haired friend, off of his phone and entirely present. It feels like a rare moment, and there’s that sense as he’s living it that he’ll think back on this, for some reason or another. One of those memories, idle and unimportant, that he knows will be vivid to him in a year, in five.

“Zayn looks tired,” Louis comments to him as he lands heavily next to Niall, huffing. Niall wants to get up and leave but he can’t be bothered, truly. It’s easier to sit there and listen to Louis’ roundabout concern. “You two been staying up late?”

Niall doesn’t say anything, just leans back against the sofa and closes his eyes, feeling the ridge of the wood pressing into the back of his neck, a steadying pressure. He hums, something he feels like is more of an acknowledgement of Louis speaking than any kind of agreement. Louis slaps Niall on the knee, anyhow, and chimes into something Liam’s said to Harry, the three of them arguing good-naturedly about it.

Niall’s thinking about whether it’s worth the effort to leave the hotel an hour after their arrival when Zayn walks up to him, so silent Niall nearly jumps when he speaks.

“You goin’ out?” He asks, and the sides of his head need another shave, his lips a little pale and his eyes slightly glassy. Niall would ask if he’d been smoking if he didn’t know any better – Zayn only smokes with Louis, and it’s been at least three months since the two of them have done anything in the same room but sleep. Niall would’ve asked, if it had been years ago. Now he just shrugs, shooting Zayn a smile.

“Thought about it,” he says, running a hand over the hair at the base of his neck, “But I’m tired, I dunno. And the fans...”

Zayn makes an agreeing sort of sound, like he can’t quite muster up the effort. “Everything’s...” He licks his lips, swallowing thickly. “It feels like too much.”

Niall breathes out, something in his bones loosening, his muscles aching as they finally relax for what feels like the first time in a long while. He stares at Zayn – his hair’s long, even if it’s short on the sides. It covers part of his face, and maybe that was the point; Niall’s always known how Zayn’s felt about it, part proud and part irritated, because he can’t slink in the shadows like Niall can, can’t just pop out with his mates and have a night without someone taking a picture. He’s too recognisable, and suddenly he knows why Zayn feels overwhelmed, alone in so many ways even if he still has Niall.

“C’mere,” Niall murmurs, tugging on him until they’re right up against each other, a hand on the back of Zayn’s head and another around his lower back, squeezing gently. They stand like that, the two of them quiet as Niall sways them a little, feeling his heart grow bigger, his palms sweat. He’s missed this – the intimacy, the closeness. If there’s one thing that Niall misses, it’s this. Everything else falls away, in the end. Even the band, it seems. But holding a friend close, holding Zayn close, makes it all seem alright. Niall inhales, feels the air perforate every corner of his chest, and wonders whether he’ll still have this by the end of it all.

“We should go out,” he rushes to say, flushing when Zayn lifts his head a little to look at him. He hadn’t quite meant to suggest it, but it’s done now. Zayn quirks a corner of his mouth, and Niall lets the hand drop from his hair even if the other still sits at his skinny waist, entirely too big for it.

“Yeah,” agrees Zayn, and he’s a little raspy, like he’s just woken up. “Any ideas?”

Niall smiles, and it feels so big in the room that it’s like he’s time-travelled, and the two of them are seventeen and desperate to ease the excitement pumping through their veins.

They end up just under an hour out of the city, at a park that has live music. They laugh about it – Zayn’s more of a quiet chuckle than anything full-blown. Niall lets their fingers brush when they sequester themselves in a corner, their hats blocking out the sun but also obscuring people’s views. It’s mostly an older crowd, anyway. And whilst Niall knows that doesn’t necessarily mean people won’t know who they are, he also knows they’re not going to take pictures without permission if they stumble across the two of them.

Zayn’s got his eyes closed, leaning back in his chair to let the sun hit his face. They’re wearing polos and jeans and Niall has the certainty, in this moment, that they won’t get recognised today.

“Mr Boogie Woogie not enough for you?” Niall jokes, the performing act jamming moderately in the background. It feels almost quiet, considering what they’re used to.

It might be cooler than California, and it might be a boring day to everyone else, but Niall cherishes it suddenly. He can’t remember the last time he saw Zayn smile like this, eyes closed but crinkling, his teeth showing.

“Mr Boogie Woogie is definitely enough, mate,” Zayn replies, and the way he’s leant back – his slender body on show to no one but Niall – makes Niall laugh, rubbing a hand over his face and letting it rest on his chin to hide his too wide grin.

They walk one of the trails an hour later, and Niall watches Zayn’s shoulders, the uneven rhythm of his breathing, until he calls it a day, the two of them grabbing some ice cream on the way back. Zayn picks choc mint, and Niall wonders whether Zayn’s ever gone for ice cream in his life – at least in a way that wasn’t photographed for the whole world to see – because he’s licking at it like it won’t melt right onto his tattooed hand.

“S’not right,” Niall manages to get out through a mouthful of peach cobbler flavoured dairy and waffle cone, “Where’s your passion, Zayn?”

Zayn just hums, his cheeks lifting with a smile. He does the same thing when he leans into Niall later, the car quiet and, Niall thinks, oddly serene. It’s easy, is the thing, and Niall lets the worry at that realisation wash over him and away, his skin prickling before smoothing out again. It’s not worth it, really. This’ll all end, eventually, and then he can worry about it – but for now Niall adjusts them so Zayn’s nose isn’t squashed against his throat. He looks out of the window, wondering if anyone thought they’d go to a Family Fun Day on one of their days off. Probably. Niall’s read some of the fanfiction.

“Been awful busy, haven’t you?” Louis remarks when Zayn’s shuffled off to his bunk, leaving Niall to deal with whatever this is. Niall just shrugs, turning around to leave.

“Leave them alone, Lou,” Harry says, and Niall only hears the tail-end because he’s listening for it, “I think it’s sweet.”

It’s like anything else Harry would say, endearing and sincere and maybe with a hint of vagueness that has Niall gritting his teeth – but worst of all, it makes Niall frown because he doesn’t understand it. It’s been years since he didn’t know what Harry was talking about, and the fact that he doesn’t right now has him off-kilter, tossing and turning in his bed all night, waking only to know they have a concert that night and that he’ll have to get his shit together if he wants to do the band justice.

Zayn walks over to him a few hours before the show, the green room a mess and Liam and Louis shouting at each other, laughing in between.

“What do you think it’d be like,” he asks, crowding into Niall’s space. Normally Niall would drop his shoulder, edge away with an uncomfortable chuckle. But he’s tired, and Zayn seems more energised than he is, so he lets it happen in the hope he can absorb some of Zayn’s curiosity through... osmosis, if he’s remembering Wikipedia right. “If we were all the same, but different?”

Niall frowns, a smile turning his lips up despite himself. “Babe, what?”

Zayn huffs, turning to look at Harry tapping away on his phone in the corner, the other two’s argument not phasing him. Niall’s eyes follow, perplexed. “Don’t you think it’d, like, be funny if we weren’t ourselves? If I was Zayn and you were Niall and Harry was Harry but none of us did this stupid shit?”

There’s an underlying frustration there, but Niall can’t tell anymore if it’s fond or resigned.

“Maybe,” he replies, thinking about yesterday, about Zayn’s smile and his own fluttering heart, “But if none of us were ourselves, wouldn’t the moments where we can run away from _this_ not mean as much?” He turns, watches Zayn’s eyes reluctantly catch his, his cheeks paler than they should be. “And doesn’t that make those moments special? Make you appreciate _this_ a bit more?”

They stand in silence for a few moments, the sounds of the friends breaking any kind of comfort.

“Sometimes,” admits Zayn, and he lifts a hand to tug on Niall’s right ear, then drops it to poke his nipples and finally his bellybutton, “I’ll see you on stage, yeah?”

He leaves, and Niall watches him go, feeling unsettled.

It’s like there’s something to prove that night in Vancouver, Niall bouncing around stage and wiggling his hips and putting on bling and watching Zayn all the while, seeing his eyes light up in amusement even if his movements are routine, his thin body slower than it should be. He lets his head rest on Zayn’s shoulder at one point, feeling his left cheek brush Zayn’s neck and wondering if he can keep them right here, together and happy.

Niall knows, though, that it’s going to end. They all decided, even if Zayn didn’t say much. Sometimes Niall thinks Zayn left a while ago, but then days like Sunday happen and he forgets about it.

They sleep in the same bed that night, Niall hanging onto Zayn’s shirt after the show ends in a moment of weakness, letting him lead them up to his room. It’s not the bus, not this time, and Niall thinks that tells him everything he needs to know.

 

***

 

“Hey, Nialler,” Liam calls out a few weeks later, and Niall lets his head swing toward him, his chin resting on his own shoulder. He’s slumped on the sofa, Louis absolutely flogging him in FIFA. Sometimes Niall thinks he might _dream_ in FIFA.

“What’s up, Payno?” Niall asks, letting his controller drop to the floor, Louis’ loud whooping barely in his thoughts.

“Seen Zayn?” he asks, and Niall lifts an eyebrow, smiling.

“Why would I know?” he counters, “Haven’t seen him since yesterday.”

“Lover’s spat?” Louis teases, pushing his shoulder into Niall’s. Niall frowns, looking between the two of them.

“What d’you mean?” Niall laughs after an awkward pause, “I’m not his keeper.”

“Oh,” Liam says, and he frowns, his bushy eyebrows making it look less concerned and more ridiculous. Niall remembers that he loves him, suddenly. “I just thought, with the two of you, that, y’know, you might–”

“Two of us?” Niall repeats, and he stands, laughing again, something unnameable stuck in his oesophagus. “Payno, you’re talkin’ as if we’re boyfriends or something.” He laughs once more, palms sweaty. He steps over Louis’ junk on the floor, wondering but also a little too old to care much.

“Well, aren’t you?” Louis huffs, and Niall twists to glimpse his face, no doubt jesting and smug. It’s not though, is the thing. He’s staring at Niall with a clear face, expectant. There’s no smile at all.

“No,” Niall answers slowly, looking back at Liam who has his eyebrows raised, “What, you thought we’d paired off and not told any of you? You thought, ‘cause me ‘n’ Zayn are the only ones who aren’t straight that, like, of course we’d fuck each other?”

It’s meant to come out amused, like Niall thinks this is hilarious. Instead it’s a little too hard, his swears emphasised subconsciously. Niall frowns, clearing his throat.

“You’re mad,” he jokes, grinning, trying to forget the past five minutes, “Zayn’s just tired, yeah? Been sleeping whenever he can, which is often next to me. We’re mates.”

“Sure, yeah,” Liam replies, laughing as well. It sounds so genuine that Niall relaxes, his chest feeling better immediately, “Sorry, Nialler. You seen him, though?”

“Nah, mate,” Niall answers, and lets himself pretend like he’s not still thinking about this, the words tumbling around in his head like clothes in a dryer. “I’m knackered, though. Might hit the hay.”

He brushes past Liam, lets his friend’s warmth seep into him for barely a moment before he’s fully gone, out in the real world and sucking in air like he’s just come up from the ocean, gasping.

He does this for five seconds and then he walks away, falls asleep in his hotel room.

Zayn finds him hours later, his dark circles less pronounced and his smile small, freely given.

“Niall,” he starts, and he pushes a hand into Niall’s hair, runs it through calmly and not like the rest of them think they’re fucking in here right now. His wrist is delicate, but Niall’s pleased to see that he doesn’t seem so fragile, so breakable. He’s Zayn, and Niall wonders when that happened.

“Hey,” Niall rasps, feeling sleepy still. He just wants to pull Zayn into him, bury his nose in the soft hair behind his ear and let everything go black once more. Then he remembers, like the memory is whacking him over the head every few seconds, and pulls away instead. This is what they always do, and it makes Niall feel itchy to think that the others thought of it as something else, something Niall hasn’t done in a while, hasn’t even thought of recently.

“Should’ve said,” Zayn tells him, huffing out a barely-there laugh, “Would’ve joined you if I’d known.”

“Why’s that?” Niall blurts out, letting Zayn’s hand fall from his hair as he shifts away, flinging his legs over until he’s hunched into himself, hands covering his face and his eyes stinging. The thought’s still there, his brain pounding against his skull.

“Niall?” Zayn asks, and the warmth in his tone has been replaced by confusion. “Babe, what’s up?”

“ _Shite,_ ” he whispers to himself, and he knows he can’t be heard through his hands, too muffled for much intelligibility. “Nothing, Zayn,” Niall replies through his fingers, louder and clearer, “Don’t worry about me.”

He hears the sheets rustle, feels the mattress move as Zayn knee-crawls over, pressing his side into Niall’s. Niall wants to say something, wants to laugh it off and tell Zayn and ask ‘isn’t that fuckin’ hilarious?’ and have the two of them cuddle until they fall asleep, a comfort in the chaos of their lives. But he can’t, because when he opens his mouth and goes to say something, the words get stuck in his throat. Niall’s not good at lying, not when it matters.

Zayn doesn’t say anything, though. He pulls Niall into him, lets Niall’s forehead press into his bare chest, the tank top hanging low and exposing the inked red lips for all to see. He does this, and he says nothing when Niall weeps, shoulders shaking, his gut churning with everything he doesn’t say, with all the words he wishes he could spit out.

To Louis, he’d shove him, glare at him; he’d say coolly and calmly that if he can’t talk to Zayn then maybe he doesn’t deserve him, then maybe he needs to shut up about other shit he doesn’t understand and leave them alone. He’d try not to cry, and he’d wonder how the fuck he and Tommo came out like this when all the right ingredients were there.

To Harry, he’d snatch his phone out of his hands and he’d tell him that his real friends are right here, right next to him, and it’d be stupid not to see that. He’d yell, he’d fling the phone away, and he’d ask Harry why he’s acting like they’re already done, like the band’s already finished. He’d ask why Harry is counting down the days like a kid waiting for a holiday.

To Liam, he’d pull him close, hug him the hardest he could, and whisper in his ear that his enthusiasm, his insistence that nothing’s going to change, just makes everything harder. He thinks he’d pull away, after that, and forget everything else he planned to admit.

To Zayn he’d ask one simple question – _where are you?_

“I’m right here,” Zayn murmurs, pulling Niall’s face up, ignoring the wetness of his cheeks and Niall’s soft hiccoughs, his trembling chin, “Babe, I’m here. I’m not leaving.”

“Everyone’s going,” Niall mumbles, and Zayn smiles, that one just for him.

“Yeah,” Zayn tells him honestly, and this is why Niall loves him, why Niall wants to stay, why Niall can’t fucking _think,_ “But just because someone leaves doesn’t mean they don’t love you.”

“Zayn,” Niall responds miserably, letting him drag them further up the bed, lying down next to each other with their legs tangled. Niall feels like a child who’s just had a tantrum, exhausted and eyes crusty.

“I was gonna leave, yeah?” Zayn admits, and Niall’s eyes shoot to his, trying to focus on his freckle there because it’s easier than listening to this. “I was goin’ to, and Louis found out, yelled at me, told me I was selfish and I just–” He smiles, but it’s wry and weary, “I was tired, Ni. I thought – it doesn’t matter anymore, how long it is. It might be a month, or maybe it’ll be a year until it all stops. I couldn’t even muster up the effort to be angry about it.”

“Why are you saying this?” Niall asks, quiet and miserable. He feels exposed, turned inside out. He doesn’t do this. He doesn’t cry on his friend’s shoulders, he doesn’t break down. He laughs and he jokes and plays golf. That’s what he does. It’s just not enough to keep it all in, anymore. Niall can’t.

“I was goin’ to leave,” Zayn repeats, and he frames Niall’s face with his hands, rubs his thumbs into his skin as if he’s hoping to leave marks, “But I still love you, Niall. All of us love you, and letting the band go doesn’t make that go away.”

The room’s silent. Niall doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to tell Zayn that it’s not that easy, that things don’t just work out like that. That maybe Niall doesn’t think he can survive out there on his own, not when Zayn has the face that can’t help but be recognised and Niall can go missing for weeks with ease.

He falls asleep, in the end, with his face pressed into Zayn’s collarbones. He lets it happen, because he thinks that maybe if he can’t have the band, then it’ll be okay if he lets himself have this.

 

***

 

Harry’s having breakfast, phone in hand, when Niall talks to him for the first time in what feels like months.

“Mornin’,” he greets him, cheerful to hide the rawness of waking up in Zayn’s arms this morning.

Harry looks up, expression surprised before it morphs into happiness, a grin on his face.

“Niall,” he announces, like he needs to tell the whole room Niall’s name. Niall feels his chest swell, the corners of his mouth lift of his own accord. He’s missed this, and maybe it was on him to keep it going, even if it’s not quite fair. Maybe if Niall wants to keep it all together, he has to keep at it.

They’re chatting about the day to come – they’re in New Jersey, and they’ve got a gig at the MetLife Stadium tonight. Harry says he thinks he’ll go out, get some sun. Niall tells him he needs it, and Harry pouts the rest of the meal, tangling his feet with Niall’s to let him he know he’s not serious, smiling into his oatmeal like a kid who’s trying to hide something.

It’s only because Niall’s heart pangs at that – they’re all so young, aren’t they? – that he says anything at all.

“Uhh,” he starts, twisting his mouth before he chuckles, “Zayner ‘n’ I, we aren’t,” he rolls his hand around, as if that says it all. “We aren’t together. Lou, sort of, got the wrong impression.” A shirtless Niall answering the door with red lips and messy hair might do that, he supposes; though it feels like a terrible reason, considering the kinds of things Louis has done with Harry over the years, and yet there’s nothing but friendship there.

“Okay.” Harry replies, smiling, and he goes back to his oatmeal. Niall loves him, and the sight of him returning to his phone after a few bites doesn’t twist inside Niall like it usually does.

 

***

 

Zayn’s better, after Niall collapsed into him. He’s smiling more, like admitting to Niall that he’d been planning leave left him feeling light and free, which means that the tiredness he was feeling was probably because he’d been staving off the guilt constantly, muscles weak with it all.

Niall feels better, too. He feels like – yeah, it’s inevitable that they’ll part ways, that things won’t be the same... but that doesn’t always mean what Niall thinks it has to mean. Love can change, too, and maybe they’ll still love each other regardless of the band.

That’s what Niall hopes, anyway. It’s harder to come to terms with it in reality, but he’s trying. Zayn’s a welcome distraction. He thinks he might be trading in one worry for another, though – where before Zayn was the easiest thing about this, he’s now the most difficult. Or maybe confusing is a better word.

He finds himself wondering, at night with Zayn curled into him, why the others thought they were together. Like he’s thought before, it’s not like the others haven’t done worse, or looked worse, around each other. Harry and Louis come to mind; but after their concert in New Jersey, where Liam and Harry had pretty much played gay chicken on stage, Niall knows it’s not just them. Hell, even Niall’s called Harry fond nicknames, and Zayn and Liam were inseparable for so long in the early days that Louis had to tell them bluntly that unless they wanted a situation like he and Harry, maybe they should back off each other.

So what makes this real? What makes the two of them legitimate, when Louis always emphasised that however many love bites he gave Harry, it was never more than friends being friends?

He grumbles about it to himself for a bit, providing all the reasons why it’s absurd – their friends are idiots; just because he and Zayn spend a lot of time together doesn’t have to mean they’re having sex. Or even kissing.

And maybe they _are_ the only ones who aren’t straight – even if Harry’s had sex with a man before, which was a Saturday night conversation Niall can’t erase from his mind no matter how hard he tries – but like he told them, that doesn’t automatically mean they’re together. It rankles him a bit, but he lets it go – there are bigger fish to fry when it comes to harmful assumptions, and Niall knows they didn’t mean it like that. He _knows_ them.

He thinks, though, that maybe it’s not the two of them that are telling a false story. Maybe it’s Niall. Try as he might, he knows how he feels when Zayn hugs him, when Zayn told him that he loved him – even when Niall cried into his chest. Niall knows how he felt, and he knows how he feels, but he’d just thought – mates. His best mate. He was tired, he needed quiet – and so did Zayn.

“ _Fuckin’ hell,_ ” he curses to himself, rubbing a hand over his face. He thinks he ought to stay quiet, let it all blow over. It’d be easier, maybe. But Zayn’s always been the easiest thing about all of this, and Niall thinks, whilst he’s brave and not feeling like the band is crumbling beneath his feet, that right now is the time to do it. Right now, more than any other time, is when Niall can rock the boat – if that’s what’ll happen.

“You’re mad,” he tells himself, worrying at his bottom lip as he makes his way to Zayn’s room, “You’re bloody mad. _Shite._ ”

Zayn answers, and he looks like he was waiting for Niall.

“Hurry up,” he grumbles, “M’tired.”

It’s four in the afternoon, but Niall gets into bed anyway, Zayn’s head heavy on his chest. Their breathing is even, and Niall exhales the words, wondering what the hell’s taken over him.

“I love you, Zayn.”

Zayn hums. “I know.”

“Did you just–” Niall’s eyes widen, and he shifts enough that Zayn has to lift his head, “I know enough about Star Wars to know you just Han Solo-ed me, Zayn. Did you just Han Solo me?”

Zayn smiles, though he seems to be fighting back a grin. “Babe, you cried on me. You never cry on anyone.”

“But–” Niall protests, feeling a little offended that his breakdown’s being trivialised like this, though that’s exactly what he’d have done if Zayn had mentioned it.

“I love you, too,” Zayn tells him, and he leans up on his elbows, lets their faces hover close, “I told you that.”

“I just thought–” Niall stammers, frowning, “Mates?”

“Did you?” Zayn asks, and he raises an eyebrow, like Niall shouldn’t be this stupid.

Niall frowns, but then Zayn’s thumb is tugging on his bottom lip and he looks down, distracted.

“I thought you wanted to wait,” Zayn murmurs, and his eyes flick up to Niall’s, his hair messy around his face, “Maybe until the hiatus.”

Niall thinks about how he would have looked to Zayn in that moment, crying into his skin – how he would’ve likely looked to all of them, on the edge of something for months. He feels it there, at the back of his head, simmering away; but it’s harmless, and he knows – now that he realises, now that Zayn’s told him all of this – that although it might bubble over at points, he’s not alone in this. He can talk to the others; he can talk to Zayn.

He can’t disagree, though, that maybe it’s best if they hold off on this, the promise of it allowing for Niall to drown out the rest.

“Yeah,” Niall mutters, but he can’t look away from Zayn, “Can I–?”

Zayn seems to know, because he leans forward, inhaling sharply before their lips touch.

It’s not a revelation – it’s not like Niall’s lips tingle and he gets lost in Zayn and he can’t possibly think about not having this. Niall’s in love with Zayn, but he’s old enough to know love expresses itself in different ways; Zayn’s not a thrill, not fireworks. He’s coming home after a night out to your comfortable bed, nuzzling into the pillow; he’s enjoying an ice cream on a summer’s day; he’s all of the things Niall takes for granted but never wants to lose.

So, it’s easy – like things with Zayn always are – to say, “Yeah, let’s wait,” after they part, licking his lips and savouring the taste.

Zayn grins at him from across the stage that night, and Niall feels the rush of One Direction in his veins and the promise of a future underneath his skin. Zayn’s waist feels hot when he squeezes it, and when he smiles – for Niall, for what’s to come – Niall can’t help but let his heart loosen and his chest expand with every breath, like he’s grateful for it all.

He has this now, and he and Zayn will have each other later. It’ll be alright.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think! My first ziall :')
> 
> [I'm over on tumblr.](http://undercutzayn.tumblr.com)


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